


Reservations

by khasael



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Anal Sex, Business Trip, Dom/sub Undertones, Hotel Sex, M/M, Morning Wood, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:37:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>boner: n. Informal: A blunder or an error.</i><br/>And this may very well be the biggest one of Mike's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reservations

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I started writing sometime during my view of S1 (my old gdoc indicates I tossed the draft up there in February of 2012). Despite that, it's essentially canon-compliant through S2 and can be read as such, but it most certainly ignores S3. Also, much thanks to groolover for the beta, and to MajaLi for periodically harassing me about this for the last year and a half or so.

It's only one in the morning when Harvey strides into the lobby of the hotel, Mike on his heels. It's not only late – and Mike's body is not at all fooled by the three-hour time change; it knows damn well it's currently four in New York – but is also the tail-end of a day that started, for Mike, twenty-two and a half hours ago. 

And fuck, is he feeling it.

Harvey, however, is a man on a Mission, set to get them checked in and into their room so they have at least a little bit of sleep before they have to get up and meet with the clients that necessitated this little cross-country trip. He, of course, looks like a functioning adult, still impressive and put-together. It's the complete opposite of what Mike feels like, and likely also looks like.

The last-minute trip wouldn't be so bad, really, if it weren't for... well, a lot of things. Mike had been looking forward to finally leaving Pearson Hardman for the night, crashing shortly after consuming a pizza delivered from Antony's, and only having to drag himself through one more workday before getting some time to himself to do absolutely nothing. He's been running himself ragged with Harvey's current cases, and the best plans he could think of for the weekend were no plans whatsoever. He'd been so close, too, already figuring out which toppings he wanted on tonight's dinner as he gathered his things from his desk, and then Harvey had appeared out of the shadows like some – well, like some _specter_ , to be honest – and told Mike to forget his plans for the night, they had a flight to catch. Mike's protests hadn't accomplished anything.

Harvey had done that brief-him-as-they-walk thing he's so fond of, and Mike was still processing facts and flipping though the file folder Harvey had handed him once they got in the car, so he'd been a little surprised when they pulled up at his building. "Thirty minutes," Harvey had said, his eyes flicking halfway up the building, indicating Mike's apartment. "Completely packed and back down here. Through Monday. Let's go."

Mike had gaped for a good fifteen seconds, and his stammered arguments were met only with "Now it's twenty-nine minutes," and Harvey's no-bullshit stare. Mike had scrambled out of the car and into the building like he was being chased by Trevor's goon associates again. Thirty-three minutes later, his bag was in the trunk, alongside Harvey's (and when, exactly, had Harvey had time to pack and retrieve it? Or was that a move orchestrated by a combination of Donna and Ray?), and he was slipping back into his seat, met with only a mildly-annoyed glare, left to wonder how the hell he even managed to get roped into a last-minute trip to Los Angeles for clients he wasn't even passingly familiar with until an hour ago.

The whirlwind packing episode had been the first piece of the puzzle that had Mike here, trailing Harvey across an essentially empty lobby and trying not to trip over his own feet. Harvey, the bastard, had napped on the plane. Mike, on the other hand, had been so keyed up that he could barely sit in his seat. There Harvey was, reclined as much as his seat allowed, somehow still managing to look poised even as he dozed, and all Mike could do was think about that if they were actually _traveling_ somewhere – somewhere farther than Atlantic City – then this was Big. This was something he really, really could not fuck up. He'd managed to get himself so worked up, bouncing around in his own head, that the flight attendant had asked if he was all right. 

"Yeah, no, I'm okay," he'd assured her, at least managing to pitch his voice low and keep from waking Harvey. "I think I've just had too many Red Bulls today." Which wasn't really untrue. Four of the twenty-ounce cans, plus coffee in the morning. The flight attendant had given him a placating little smile and nodded before walking off, bid a few rows back by the ding of someone's call button.

The crash – a combination of a few hours of adrenaline and worry over getting everything right and being what Harvey expects him to be, and the absence of high levels of caffeine and sugar now in his bloodstream – hits Mike about twenty minutes before they land. Runs him over, really. Mike feels it, completely sure of what it is, but unable to do anything about it as they stand and disembark, and it only gets worse on the cab ride to the hotel.

By the time they pull up outside the front entrance, things are definitely Not Good.

Harvey gets out and moves into the lobby, and Mike feels like he's on some bad drug trip as he tries to follow. One second he's trying to leverage himself out of the backseat, and then he's walking through the front door, the doorman nodding at him and someone following with their luggage, and then he's just standing behind Harvey, who's arguing with the guy at the check-in desk. There are obviously actions that happened to lead him through each step, but Mike can't really keep track of them. It's almost like being black-out drunk, for periods of ten to thirty seconds at a time. Which is more than a little alarming, really.

If they could just get to their rooms – which, Mike is just barely able to grasp, appears to be one single, _shared_ room – and into bed, Mike might be okay. Check-ins take all of a minute, right? Hand over some ID, maybe a credit card, get a key, and take the elevator. Mike can manage that, even if his hands _are_ starting to shake. 

It takes more than a minute.

Mike's having a hell of a time following the whole conversation, because it suddenly becomes more necessary to divert his attention to keeping his eyes open and keep from swaying as he stands. He clenches his hands into fists as Harvey exclaims something about reservations, and is breathing deeply through his nose when the desk clerk explains – probably not for the first time, though Mike can't be sure about that – that they're full-up due to a number of conventions in the area, and the room he has booked under Harvey's name, regrettably, only contains one bed. And there are no available trundle beds anywhere in the building. 

Mike feels himself sway again, only just able to keep from stumbling, and, nope, that's his cue that things have hit the This Could Be a Problem stage. "Harvey." He intends to say it firmly, to get his boss's attention, even if he's just going to tell him he's going to sit on that bench there by the elevator. He gets the word out, but it's weak, quiet, and neither the desk clerk nor Harvey seems to hear him. Mike has a really bad feeling about this.

Harvey has that look Mike's seen a thousand times, with the smile that's less friendly and more 'I-am-about-to-eviscerate-you-verbally', and the expression on the desk clerk's face says he's dealt with a hundred people like Harvey in the last two days alone and is up for the fight. That's what they need: two steel-willed people who aren't against butting heads for a while.

"Harvey," Mike tries again, forcing himself to be louder, because now he's actually dizzy.

"Wait," Harvey says, dismissing him with the just-a-minute index finger Mike gets all the time. "We're not going anywhere until this is fixed." He turns back to the desk clerk, and the rant he begins is sort of lost to Mike, who's trying to keep his legs from saying to hell with it and just depositing him on the floor of the lobby.

"Harvey, PLEASE." It's a last-ditch effort, accompanied by a tug on Harvey's sleeve like Mike's two years old, but desperate times and all.

" _What_?" Harvey snaps, turning the focus of his annoyance toward Mike, but then he seems to actually see what Mike's been trying to tell him. "Jesus, Mike," he mutters, and, though Mike wouldn't put sleep-deprived hallucination past himself right now, he thinks that might actually be concern on Harvey's face.

Harvey reaches out and grabs Mike by the elbow, squeezing hard. It has the dual effect of jolting him a little more alert and helping to keep him upright. "We'll take the room for now," Harvey tells the clerk through clenched teeth. "But this had damn well better be fixed by 9 A.M." He slaps his palm on the counter, covering the key card that's been sitting there like a taunt, and slides it into his pocket. The desk clerk just nods, as if he knew it would end up this way, and signals to the bellhop to grab their things and go.

In all honesty, Mike doesn't even care that there's only one bed in the hotel room, because he isn't even sure he can make it across the room to climb into it before he falls flat on his face. But somehow he makes it, even manages to get his shoes and his tie off before collapsing on top of the comforter, and the next thing he knows, Harvey is towering over him, looking at him with his eyebrows raised high. Mike knows that look – that's the one that asks for an explanation without words – but obeying is _really_ hard right now.

"Wahmeena oovonnafor?" Well, it was worth a shot.

Harvey snorts. "Care to try that again, in English?"

"Want me to. Move onto the floor?" Mike tries again, tongue thick and head fuzzy. How long did he drift off? Harvey's in a pair of drawstring sweatpants that Mike thinks might actually be designer label, and a faded Harvard Law T-shirt, which oddly looks like the most comfortable thing he's ever seen, all worn-in and soft-looking. Tired though he is, Mike's positive Harvey would never be seen in those things out in public, which means he must have changed since they walked into the room.

"Don't be an idiot," Harvey sighs, rolling his eyes. "It's a queen-sized bed. We can both fit and have plenty of room. Because I'm not sleeping on that floor, and I'm not having you rat me out to Jessica that I made my associate sleep on the floor of our hotel room after a red-eye flight. I'm a hard-ass, Mike, not an asshole." He pauses, giving a warning glare, because apparently he's used to Mike's smart-ass retorts, even if Mike's too tired to actually verbalize them at the moment. "Don't even say it. Just get your ass out of that suit before you ruin it any further, climb back into that bed, and get some sleep. I can't have you hallucinating or drooling on yourself in front of our clients."

It's the hardest thing in the world, to sit up and remove pants and socks and jacket and shirt. In the end, he gives up the idea of changing and just drags himself under the covers, wearing his boxers and his undershirt. Harvey mutters something, but he yanks the stiff sheet and scratchy comforter up over them and turns out the light on the bedside table. "Get some sleep, Mike," he murmurs, settling under the covers himself. But Mike doesn't need to be told, and, really, he couldn't do anything else if he tried.

* * *

It's hard to breathe: the air feels like it's been squeezed out of him, or maybe even like someone's replaced all the oxygen with some other gas, because no matter how much Mike gasps, he can't seem to get any air, and it's like he's drowning. It hurts, oh _God_ , it hurts, nothing should be able to hurt this much, especially not two little words like "she's gone" and that crushing, devastating feeling that he wasn't there like he should have been, that he was somehow to blame, and how the fuck is it so _cold_ all of a sudden, like standing out in the wind after a late-fall rainstorm, even though it's –

" – okay, Mike. You're fine – " 

But he's not, he'll never be fine, not with his Grammy dead and him not even getting to the home in time to say he's – 

" – just dreaming – "

And suddenly, he jolts awake, a startled noise escaping him and his legs jerking violently. It's like a light's turned on in the gloom, illuminating his nightmare for what it is, that cold dread replaced by the breeze from the air conditioner two feet away, and the squeezing sensation melting away, even though he can swear he feels arms around his shoulders, warm and solid, grounding him in the dark, letting him know that he's not in that dimly-lit corridor, the green-lit sign saying "MORGUE" in giant letters staring at him, burning itself deep into his brain.

"Shhh," a voice whispers in his ear, and Mike can actually smell the faintest trace of mouthwash and maybe cologne. And though he knows that should be alarming, he can do little but feel comforted by the voice. It seems to belong to Harvey, even though Harvey's probably never _considered_ saying something comforting like this to someone like Mike. "Go back to sleep," Harvey's voice murmurs, and then the arms around his are gone and the blankets are back up around his shoulders, and Mike's too exhausted to form words, no matter how much he wants to start asking questions. And just as Mike feels himself start to drift again, he hears the voice one more time, coming to him as if muffled through a wall of cotton: "That's it. Good boy."

And now he has more questions, but sleep drags him down again, cradling him this time like a set of arms might have been just moments ago.

* * *

When he wakes again, it's not from the grip of another nightmare probably brought on by sleep deprivation and airport security hassles, but from warm, golden light spilling through the curtains neither of them closed all the way last night. He surfaces from sleep slowly, feeling warm and loose and famished and fucking horny as hell. He's got morning wood so hard there's no way it's going away on its own, and what he really wants right now is some serious alone time in the shower where he can think about Harvey snarking at him as he jerks off, and then the biggest breakfast on the _planet_.

Only that's kind of a problem, since he's in a hotel room _with_ Harvey. In the same bed, in fact, a realization that only comes to Mike when he notices that someone is breathing evenly, really close behind him. 

Fuuuuuuck.

Well, it's still not an impossible set of goals. If he gets out of bed carefully enough, he can do it without waking Harvey, and should be able to grab his little bag of toiletries and duck into the bathroom without being seen. He rolls forward, toward the window, but just the friction of the fucking mattress on his hard-on as he moves makes him groan just a little before he can bite down on it. Automatically, he moves back onto the bed, so he doesn't rub up against anything else, but all that does is press him up lightly against Harvey.

... Who's sporting his own bit of morning wood, apparently.

Oh, Jesus. Why does the universe insist on being so cruel?

Mike doesn't know where to go. He certainly can't go backward since Harvey's dick is essentially nestled against the crack of Mike's ass _already_ , and Mike's pretty sure Harvey'd have a sexual assault case filed against him before he could even put on a pair of pants. His only real option is to try to get out of bed again, but really, really carefully, so he doesn't wake Harvey and have to say "good morning" while trying to hide his erection and the slowly-spreading damp spot on his boxers.

Fuck. Stuck between a rock and a hard place. Or, more accurately, between two rock-hard dicks. Mike giggles, trying to bury his face in the pillow to keep quiet, but the movement pushes him against Harvey just a little more, makes his ass sort of rub up on Harvey somehow, and then there's this low, guttural _moan_ and a sigh behind him, and Mike just _freezes_.

He's seriously torn between leaping from the bed and sprinting into the bathroom, where he could at least hide as he took care of his little issue (well, not-so-little; no need to be modest), and faking sleep so he can 'accidentally' rub up against Harvey again and see what happens. Because Jesus, if he can get Harvey to make that noise again... And if he could ever do it _consensually_... 

Mike has to bury his face in the pillow again to keep his whine from waking Harvey. Doing so, of course, sort of makes him rub up against Harvey again, and, if Mike's completely honest, he doesn't exactly _avoid_ doing so. And as payoff, Harvey makes this sound like he's just had a taste of the best dessert of his life, a surprised-pleased combination of contentment and longing, and he shifts, stretching, pressing his erection more firmly against Mike as one hand brushes against Mike's hip. And then Harvey goes stiff. 

Well, the rest of him does.

For a moment, neither of them moves – neither of them _breathes_. Mike's terrified and on the verge of having a heart attack and some idiotic part of his brain is telling him to take the hand Harvey still has against Mike's hip and move it so that Harvey can touch Mike's hard-on. It's insane, he's lost his mind, this is all probably some caffeine-crash-induced hallucination, or the most vivid dream he's had in his entire life, and he's going to wake up in his apartment any moment, hearing the sound of traffic outside as he silences the alarm that tells him to get ready and head to the office.

Only he doesn't wake up, and this scenario doesn't disappear. Instead, Harvey exhales very slowly through his nose, his breath warm on the back of Mike's neck, and rolls over the other direction, movements cautious. He doesn't say anything, and Mike's got his eyes kept shut anyway, because if he looks at Harvey, actually _sees_ Harvey's little friend standing at attention from within those sweatpants, Mike's going to... going to... well, something that probably won't go over well, no matter what it is.

Harvey's side of the mattress springs back up, jostling Mike a little, but Mike still keeps his eyes closed and makes a noise like he's protesting being woken up by the movement. He can hear Harvey shuffle his way into the bathroom, and then hear the click of the door shutting full into the frame, and the lock engaging. It's not until he hears the water start running for the shower that Mike allows himself to move.

He's not at home, this isn't his bed, and the towels are all trapped in the bathroom with Harvey. Normally, his morning wood would be gone by now, or at least on its way, but apparently his body is feeling defiant this morning, because it's definitely doing nothing of the sort. He tries to reason with his dick – which is generally a losing proposition, so he's not even sure why he tries – about the slight problem of leaving evidence in any form, or that he has no idea how long or how short of a shower Harvey takes so he could get caught, or even that there's nothing fun like lotion, let alone lube, anywhere within access.

As expected, his dick isn't big on reasoning and logical arguments. 

So Mike goes a little last-resort on himself: he cranks the air conditioning as high as it'll go, lies on top of the covers, and thinks of Louis. Louis with that creepy smile. Louis at the gym. In a towel.

Yeah, that does it.

While Harvey's still showering, Mike gathers up his things – clean underwear, undershirt, and little bag of toiletries – and resolves to put this whole incident out of his mind for at least the rest of the trip. They should have the sort of room Harvey originally reserved within the next couple of hours, complete with two beds and probably even a little loveseat. That will fix any future problems. And as for what happened twenty minutes ago, well... it doesn't mean anything. There have to be hundreds – thousands, even – of traveling companions who've found themselves dealing with a little bit of accidental spooning. Hell, it's a scene right out of any number of stupid comedies and bromances, right? Most of those probably leave out the unfortunate morning erections, but it's not like there's a guy out there who hasn't been dealing with those since puberty. They happen. Ebb and flow of hormonal cycles. Totally normal, even if ill-timed.

Besides, for all Harvey knows, Mike was completely asleep for everything, so there's absolutely nothing they have to acknowledge. It's simply a little fantasy, with the added bonus of there being the memory of what if felt like to have Harvey pressed up against him, and knowing he can replay the moan Harvey actually makes, to fill his spank bank. It's probably going to be a frequent withdrawal sort of thing.

The bathroom door finally swings open, and Mike thinks he actually does a damned good job at pretending there's nothing out of the ordinary that's happened between them when he takes Harvey's directive to clean up, but not to take too long, so that they can have breakfast downstairs and strategize before their first meeting at their client's office. He snaps off a little sarcastic comment about not being the one obsessed with hair product and every little hair in place before appearing in public, and Harvey's little answering snort is nothing if not a normal and expected response.

But then Harvey steps around the corner, bending a little at the waist to rifle through the suitcase he'd placed upon the dresser last night, and all of Mike's 'this is a totally normal day' resolve breaks a little at the line of Harvey's ass through the thin white towel tucked around his waist, and the sight of just a little water running down along his spine, dripped from the hair at the nape of his neck.

Hell with Louis in a towel; there is _nothing_ that overrides the sight of a still-damp Harvey in front of him, wearing nothing but a bit of white terrycloth. Mike flees into the bathroom, locking the door behind him before he sinks onto the side of the tub and absently turns on the hot water, running a hand over his face.

This is going to be a very long business trip.

* * *

It's a little over an hour before they head down to the lobby, and Harvey makes a beeline for the front desk. Mike sees the look on his face and just hopes Harvey's not going to be too much of a dick to the person behind the counter, because it's not like that got them anywhere last night.

Instead of the stocky, smug guy who was there very early this morning, the desk clerk is now a woman somewhere between Mike's and Harvey's ages. Both the way she's dressed and the way she carries herself reminds Mike instantly of Donna, and Mike can tell Harvey makes the same association by the way his posture changes just the slightest bit when he steps into line – it's subtle, but Mike knows a little of what he's looking for. Harvey's shifted from trying to get what he wants through basic flirting and light humor to trying to get what he wants by acknowledging her intelligence, but tempering anything that could be seen as sucking up with a bit of sarcasm aimed somewhere other than at her. It's flirting without the sexual aspect, almost, and, when the woman finishes up with the guest in front of them and turns to smile at Harvey, Mike can see that it's an acknowledged two-step dance. She knows all she needs to about Harvey before he's said so much as two sentences.

Maybe Mike is getting better at reading people, after all.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she says warmly. She favors them both with smiles, and makes brief eye-contact with Mike, but it's obvious they all know this entire interaction is between her and Harvey, and Mike hangs back a little. Sometimes it's just best to let Harvey do his thing. "How can I help you today?"

"We checked in late last night, only my associate and I were given a single-occupancy room instead of the – "

"Mr. Specter, is it?" she interrupts him, fingers tapping at the keyboard in front of her. "Yes, I have a note here from the clerk last night," she continues as Harvey nods, looking a little surprised and maybe even disappointed that he's not going to have to continue whatever little spiel he's already worked up in his head. "I'm so sorry about the issue, but we should have the room you originally booked ready for you within an hour."

"An hour?" Harvey asks, then leans in a little closer. His posture's still friendly, not combative at all, in stark contrast to last night. His next words are pitched low enough that Mike can't quite make it out without leaning in himself. But whatever they are has the desk clerk eyeing Mike, a funny little crooked smile just barely noticeable, and she nods and gives Harvey a different sort of appraising look. 

"That's the note I have from housekeeping, but let me see what I can do," she says after another moment. "Did you gentlemen have plans in town this morning, or will you be around the hotel?"

"We'd thought about having breakfast here," Harvey says, standing back up straight, moving more in line with Mike, who steps back up next to him like he's not just some duckling that follows Harvey around mindlessly. Mike even draws himself up so he appears instead as a fully capable adult human with an intact sense of autonomy.

"Wonderful," she replies, and then her hand is on the marble countertop, her short, manicured nails tapping onto two small glossy pieces of paper. "As our way of apology, please accept these vouchers for your meals this morning. Come back after your meal, and we'll see if we can't get you right into a room like you were expecting last evening." Her eyes track to Mike again before settling back on Harvey. "Will that suit you?"

"I think it will, Jillian," Harvey says, eyes flicking to her little gold nametag. "We appreciate it."

She dismisses them with more professional pleasantries, and Harvey steps them out of line with a hand at Mike's elbow. "Well, that went better than our check-in," Mike says with an amused little snort. "You read her a lot better than you read the guy last night."

"I read him just fine," Harvey retorts, and drops his hand. "He was going to be an asshole no matter what I said or did, _especially_ once his computer told him it didn't have the sort of room I'd reserved. Besides, how would you know? You were ready to fall on your face when we got here. At that point, it was all I could do to get you upstairs and into bed. Into _a_ bed," he quickly amends, and Mike's too busy sneaking a quick glance at the buffet station to really think about why that clarification was important. He may have taken a few minutes of solo time in the shower to, uh, clear his head, but he's still fucking _starving_. That hasn't gone away, and even the little bell in his head that's trying to tell him he's missing something is muted by his appetite.

It takes them a good fifteen minutes or more of waiting near the entrance of the hotel's restaurant before the hostess is whisking them off to a table. Harvey's already grumbled something about the wait, but shut up once Mike quoted part of the information in the hotel's informational pamphlet he read this morning while Harvey was busy eyeballing his ties, trying to pick today's winner. He'd got as far as "internationally acclaimed, and led by Chef Jacques – " before Harvey shushed him. Harvey's next complaint – about the number of people stuffed into the place – is countered with a quick "three conventions taking place within five square miles, weren't you listening to the – " before one of Harvey's legendary bitch-faces makes Mike shut up on his own. Still, this is good. This is normal, and it makes Mike feel a lot more relaxed than he has been most of the morning.

"Gentlemen, if you'll follow me," the hostess finally says, two menus held in front of her chest, and Harvey nods for Mike to go first, sort of an impatient 'well, go ahead, kid, don't keep her waiting' gesture Mike's used to by now. She picks her way through a maze of tables – several more than the restaurant normally holds, Mike's sure, just given the layout of the place – and shoots them an apologetic look over her shoulder as she leads them. "Sorry, we're a bit full today. It's one of those weekends."

"Yeah, no, we understand," Mike says, trying to weave through the dining room as easily as she does. He can see the empty table they're being led to – it's in the far corner, of course it is, but at least that means they'll have more freedom to talk business without being in the center of the place. They're about three-quarters of the way there when a little old Asian lady – she's got to be at least ninety years old, and is probably close to a foot and a half shorter than Mike is – pushes back from the table, completely blocking the pathway they're using.

Mike clamps down on the "oh, shit" that nearly escapes as he stops dead in his tracks to avoid mowing over this woman, and somehow manages not to end up sprawled on the floor, or on the table where her family's sitting, or directly on top of the woman herself. He's about ready to congratulate himself for his quick reflexes but, rather unfortunately, Harvey's aren't up to their usual honed state.

Harvey's seen the problem quickly enough to slow himself, Mike can tell that without having looked behind him at all, but not quickly enough to stop his forward momentum before it's too late. He runs into Mike's back, not just a little brushing contact, but firmly enough, thighs to chest, to have Mike stumbling and gasping a soft 'oof!' as he tries not to go forward and fall on the woman who's still blocking their way. It's close, and Mike's center of gravity has been seriously compromised by the collision, but Harvey's hands reach out and snag Mike by the waist, pulling him back – pulling him back _into_ Harvey, up against him, and Mike goes rigid, thinking of this morning, the way they were spooned together, one of Harvey's hands on Mike's hip. And for some ungodly reason, Mike whimpers, unable to stop what he doesn't know is coming.

Despite all the background noise in this place, people having conversations over breakfast, glasses and coffee cups hitting tabletops, and silverware and plates and bowls all clinking together, Harvey hears it. He must, because his hands spasm, digging into Mike's waist just a little harder before he pulls them back as if Mike is hot enough to blister his flesh. They're close enough that he can hear Harvey's ragged intake of breath just before Mike is let go and Harvey steps back, no longer making contact of any sort.

The only thing that keeps Mike upright, looking ahead and not trying to turn and run for the door, is the knowledge that the whole exchange took maybe two full seconds, three at most, and no one besides himself and Harvey has any idea anything's happened at all. The only other person close enough is the little old woman who caused the problem in the first place, and it seems she's barely able to hear the young man next to her at the table ask her to be careful and move so these nice gentlemen can pass, first in English, and then in what sounds to Mike like Korean. 

Another woman, maybe the generation between the old lady and the young man, begins to apologize to Harvey and Mike, looking thoroughly embarrassed, and Harvey waves it off, saying a few short words in that other language and giving the woman a friendly smile. Mike, for his part, mutters "no, it's okay, really," and heads after the hostess again, wanting nothing more than to slink into his seat and hide behind his menu for a while, until he can figure out how to play this one off, or at least keep his heart from thudding so quickly. 

Mike's not really sure what the hell is going on anymore. This all would have been so much easier if he had just managed to sneak out of bed this morning instead of rubbing up against Harvey. He could have gone about his business, never having to worry how much Harvey was conscious for in their accidental cuddle, or worry about what Harvey wondered Mike remembered. That collision a moment ago would have been nothing at all. It's not like Harvey doesn't manhandle him on a fairly regular basis – there have been restraining hands on his chest and arms, light shoves and nudges that have been either playful or warning, guiding touches to his elbow or arm, companionable clasps of his shoulder, and even small kicks to his feet or legs for any number of reasons. Harvey's not touchy-feely, but he's far from averse to physical contact.

At least, with Mike. Or, probably more accurately, he _was_. Now, however, Mike gets the distinct feeling Harvey's going to be a lot more conscious about that sort of thing. Conscious, and avoidant. He doesn't even have to test it out – he can feel the way it radiates between them, this hyper-aware tension. A lightning-quick glance over his menu at Harvey, half-hidden behind his own, shows the slight tension in his posture, and Mike would bet money that if he looked underneath the table, both of Harvey's feet would be planted firmly on the floor, and that he won't let himself lean back in his chair once their coffees come, one ankle resting on his knee like he usually does when they're sitting in chairs like these and having conversation that doesn't require them to lean in together to keep some semblance of privacy.

It's funny – Harvey makes this big deal out of being able to read people, being able to see all these tiny little details about their dress and posture and expressions and every little non-verbal cue on top of everything they say and the way they say it, and he's always on Mike to get better at it, but he's either doing a great job at teaching (which would pain Mike to admit, because it'd give Harvey a bigger head than he already has), or he's just failing really badly at controlling himself as well as he usually does, because there's a fair amount for Mike to read, if he gives it an effort. But the thing Mike most wants to know – what Harvey's _thinking_ , how he's interpreting the first moments of the morning, as well as Mike's goddamned whimper a few minutes ago – can't quite be read. Harvey's still got that locked up enough that Mike can't get to it, and Mike just might work himself into an anxiety attack or an aneurism over it, if he can't get his brain under control.

A waiter appears after a few moments of menu-considering silence, and Mike can't even pay attention through his whole welcome-I'll-be-your-server speech. He _does_ hear the offer of mimosas and bloody marys, and is about to request a mimosa (or twelve) as non-desperately as possible, before Harvey answers with a quick, firm, "No, thank you. Just coffee. On the clock this morning."

That's total bullshit, and Mike would totally call him on it once the waiter leaves, only he's pretty sure he can't manage to say anything that won't incriminate himself or make this breakfast about a hundred times more awkward than it already is. Harvey's had drinks 'on the clock' before – there probably isn't anyone who's a junior partner or higher (or personal associate of a senior partner, realistically) at Pearson Hardman who hasn't. But he follows Harvey's lead when the waiter addresses him, and orders coffee. Harvey probably doesn't want to let alcohol loosen his tongue enough for this to get worse, or say something he'll really regret that would have Mike flying back to New York before he even gets to see the new hotel room, let alone their client. Coffee, however, is probably the _last_ thing Mike needs, because he's already feeling twitchy and amped up.

"Did you get through the file Donna gave you on Richard Gorman?" Harvey finally asks, setting his menu flat on the tabletop.

Mike puts down his own menu. Okay. So this is Harvey's game plan: ignore it and stick with something safe – business. It kind of sucks, but the alternatives suck a lot more, so Mike can work with this. "Yeah. Magazine articles and interviews with him and his brother on their success, strategies for expansion, and why they still personally travel around the world to select the jewels they buy for their pieces." Mike pauses, and actually can't help but smirk. There had been a selection of pages from one of the Gorman Brothers' recent national ad campaigns in that folder, along with the other information. There had been a small sticky note on one page, next to an emerald and platinum pendant, with "this is an exceptionally nice piece if someone ever needs to say thank you" scrawled on it in Donna's script, a little winking smiley face underneath the message. "Plus the contracts we've put together for them in the last ten years."

"Then you feel comfortable discussing their business with them without making yourself look like an idiot?"

Mike's lips purse a little, but it's not like this isn't everyday, classic Harvey. "I can tell a princess cut from an asscher cut from a marquise cut diamond, and I know that Richard Gorman considers himself a multi-talented bench jeweler, while his brother prefers to stick to stone-setting and a little fabrication. I can quote you any of the contracts we've written for them, or tell you the terms of their contracts with De Beers or Alrosa." Mike can see Harvey's eyebrows settle a little at that, but he doesn't stop there, because he can't, awkwardness or no. "But as for talking history of sumptuary laws, well...." Harvey's eyebrows go back up, and Mike smirks before Harvey can say anything. "Actually, I can do that, too."

Harvey snorts a little, and Mike thinks that maybe they're going to be able to pull off this whole ignoring the issue thing. There's still tension there, but the more they talk about their client, about Harvey's plan for the day, about what he expects of Mike during this morning's meeting and this afternoon's planned excursion out to the Gormans' newly-purchased workshop facility, the more it fades into the background. Harvey's had a lot of experience at keeping things professional when called for, and Mike supposes that the fact that he really only knows that Harvey's dated or slept with colleagues in the past because of Donna's veiled references is proof enough of that. Harvey doesn't have a reputation as the philanderer of Pearson Hardman, even if there's a general, somewhat-acknowledged 'playboy' rep floating around instead, but it's the sort of thing everyone seems to expect from someone like Harvey, and it just seems to add to the legend Harvey's happy to grow.

Actually, the thought of Harvey in an actual _relationship_ , with things like the feelings he always claims not to have, seems... incongruous. Maybe... maybe it's not so bad they're just ignoring this morning, in that case. Mike's done his share of one-night stands, and Harvey's obviously done his (and the shares of a good chunk of Manhattan, if Mike's guessing), but what Mike wouldn't give for something with someone that went beyond the sexual to genuine affection and feelings, reciprocated in equal amounts. And if there was ever a chance at anything for Mike and Harvey together in a way that wasn't strictly mentor/student, a relationship that includes actual feelings – or anything beyond lust – isn't it.

"... not even listening to me, like always, because of course I'm just talking for my health over here."

"Richard Gorman's looking to restructure a bit after his marriage and impending fatherhood, especially since his wife wants to settle in Los Angeles more permanently," Mike replies, trying not to look guilty. He'd been listening enough to get the facts Harvey was tossing at him, but still undoubtedly thinking about things other than their client. "I mean, that's why we're here. He doesn't necessarily want to hire a California legal team, when the firm's had a relationship with him and his company since he could first afford us and took us on."

"Right," Harvey says, looking somewhat appeased. He also looks suspicious, as if he's got an inkling of what Mike's brainpower has been otherwise trained on. "And the point of this trip is to not only advise him on the necessary changes he and his brother will have to make to their financials and business plans, but to assure him the firm can take care of these changes from New York, even if he resides in California, be that temporarily or permanently. Which means we're attentive and charming."

"Like always."

"Not quite. _I'm_ always charming, and attentive to the client's needs. You could use some work."

"Funny," Mike mutters, picking up his menu again. He's still hungry as hell, and thinks that room service would have been better than having to sit here and be professional but, hey, breakfast is breakfast, and this is a pretty good selection. He's still debating between Belgian waffles, pancakes, an omelet with everything they can fit in it, or even steak and eggs and hash browns, when their waiter comes back with their coffees and waters, and asks for Harvey's order.

Mike has no idea what he really _expected_ Harvey to order – maybe a steak, maybe an omelet, bagels and lox, maybe just a lot of bacon and sausage with some eggs and toast – but he would have bet something kind of manly but classic because, between the hot dog cart lunches and few times they've been out during an evening meal, that's been Harvey's M.O. So when he opens his mouth and asks for _crepe cadix_ , Mike can't help but stare. Also, where in the hell were crepes on the menu? Mike could totally go for some sweet ones, maybe with strawberries and whipped cream, or bananas and Nutella. 

"And for you, sir?" the waiter asks, having taken the rest of Harvey's order, and Mike realizes he's still kind of looking at Harvey funny.

"Eggs Benedict," Mike says, because it's the first thing that comes to mind, and he doesn't want Harvey _and_ their waiter to give him that impatient, expectant look. He also orders a side of pancakes, plus the potatoes, because it's all he can do to not order half the menu. It's worse than having the munchies, and Mike is going to blame it on the sleep schedule issues and time change totally messing with his body's natural rhythms.

Harvey's just giving him that one-eyebrow-raised stare as the waiter walks off, and Mike shifts in his seat. "What? I'm a growing boy," he says, trying not to flush under Harvey's gaze.

Harvey shakes his head. "With a breakfast like that, I'd say you should be concerned with growing out more than up, but there are two problems with that: one, you definitely need to do some growing up, anyway." When Mike makes a face – stopping just short of sticking out his tongue, which is what he _wants_ to do – Harvey just gives a small snort and keeps going. "Two, you could do with building up that scrawny frame."

"Hey, I am not... Okay, so maybe I'm a little slim – slender – _lithe_ , actually."

"You should try the gym."

"I get plenty of exercise and, besides, weren't you just saying I was _too_ skinny?"

"I don't mean the biking. I mean getting into a gym and building some muscle. Try boxing."

"Yeah, so I can come in all battered from that, just to have you and Louis batter me mentally on top of it? I don't think so." He has this urge to ask if Harvey'd be the one teaching him, which would mean he'd get to see Harvey all sweaty and exerted and breathing hard and – okay, that's a line of thought that's got to stop before it goes any further.

Harvey just rolls his eyes, taking a long, slow drink of his coffee. "French press," he murmurs appreciatively, and Mike can't help noting the way he licks his lips after he pulls the white china mug away.

Yeah. This is going to be one _hell_ of a long trip.

* * *

The room is actually ready by the time they finish their meal, and Harvey looks reasonably confident Mike's not going to fuck everything up with their clients as they get their luggage moved into the new room. Two queen beds. Harvey eyes the room and sighs, like he'd really have preferred Donna had booked a suite, but hey, they're both now well-aware how lucky they were to get a last-minute room in any decent hotel in town, given the conventions going on this weekend.

The meeting with the Gormans goes about as well as can be expected for the first two hours. They meet out in the new facility, which has just been completed, though production hasn't been officially moved over. They're given the grand tour by both brothers, winding through the production areas and ending out into the showrooms, which are arranged into – of course – a ring. Harvey schmoozes both brothers, and Mike gets to show off how much information he knows about the business's history and a few bits of gemstone-related trivia. All around, it looks like a win. The Gormans are looking pleased, Mike can read the line of Harvey's back and shoulders well enough to _know_ that he is, and even he is sort of enjoying himself.

Someone comes in with glasses of scotch, and Mike feels less enthusiastic about taking one than Harvey probably does, but he knows better than to seem ungrateful. The four of them sit around a table in what looks like a little VIP showroom, or maybe an executive office (it's hard to tell, since the door has no information on it, and it doesn't look one-hundred-percent furnished yet), and get down to the actual negotiations – hard numbers, exact terms – and Mike just mostly lets Harvey do his thing.

And then things start to come a little unraveled.

At some point, they're joined by two women. One's easy to peg as the new Mrs. Richard Gorman – she's young and gorgeous and also obviously expecting a child in a few months. The other, however, doesn't introduce herself at all, and no one else bothers. She's somewhere between Mike's age and Harvey's, and she sits on the same little loveseat Mike's perched on, though there are other places to sit. Mike doesn't think that much of it, because he's paying attention to Harvey, and also trying to read the Gormans as they start getting into the meat of everything. So when a sultry voice asks, right into his ear, if he's unattached or just not wearing a ring because his is from a competitor, Mike jumps. Would have sloshed his drink, if it were more than a half-inch full. 

"Unattached, at present," Mike says quietly. "Though I can't think of anyone else I'd shop from, when the time comes," he adds, offering a polite smile and trying to turn his focus back to the business at hand.

"There's no one better," the woman says with a nod. "West coast, east, or anywhere in between." Which isn't too odd of a thing to say, given where they are and what they're doing, but then she trails her fingers up Mike's spine, then along his jawline, and Mike can only sit there, frozen, because what the actual hell.

Neither Gorman male seems to take any notice, but Harvey's angled slightly towards him, and _he_ definitely notices. He doesn't trip over his words, but his posture tightens, and his eyes flick at Mike in a way that makes Mike feel even more uncomfortable, which he hadn't known was particularly possible. 

When the woman scoots closer, her foot now nudging Mike's calf, Harvey's eyes flash dangerously, and Mike breaks out in a cold sweat. 

This is definitely not professional, and if there's an etiquette guide for this sort of thing, Mike's never read it, because he's drawing a complete blank. Still, neither of the Gorman brothers appear fazed in the slightest, and neither does Mrs. Gorman. Mike starts to wonder if this is some sort of candid camera moment. 

Harvey gets them through the rest of the meeting especially efficiently, and actually steers Mike outside by his elbow, where a cab pulls in to collect them a few minutes later. There's general masculine back-slapping and hand-shaking and laughter and invitations to come back to see them whenever business dictates, and then Harvey's directing Mike into the cab in a way that probably doesn't look as purposeful as it actually is.

"Harvey, I _swear_ , I wasn't doing anything back there. I have no idea what just actually happened, and – "

"Just forget about it," Harvey says, and there's something tight in his voice. He slides a manila folder out of his briefcase and hands it to Mike. "Look this over instead. Get familiar with it. Richard and George want you on the account with me. They like you."

"I don't think they're the only ones," Mike says, the lame attempt at a joke falling flat between them. For some reason, Harvey flinches a little.

"Just do what I tell you," he says, sighing and turning his head to look out the window. He doesn't say anything or look anywhere else again the next forty-five minutes, until they've made it back to the hotel. He holds his hand out for the folder as their driver pulls up in front of the building, and Mike hands it over wordlessly. He has no idea what he did wrong. He wasn't supposed to flirt back, was he? Was that the sort of thing Harvey would do, that was expected of him?

They pack themselves into an already-crowded elevator, and Mike's spared Harvey's unreadable looks as he's jostled into the middle and Harvey steps back into a corner to let a mother and her young child fit inside. It's only fifteen floors to their room, much less than the ride up to Pearson Hardman, but it feels like it takes forever. On the third floor, a few people get out, easing the crowding, and a young woman who looks a little like Rachel, only softer around the edges, gets on. She smiles shyly at Mike, apologizes as she squeezes up against him as the doors shut, and Mike smiles back, keeping his eyes to the front. 

"That's a really nice color on you," she says, two more floors up, then runs a finger down Mike's tie. It's kelly green, with thin blue and silver threads. Harvey's selection this morning, because Mike stood there too long, thinking about breakfast instead of his wardrobe options. "Brings out your eyes."

Mike can feel his face heat a little. "Uh, thanks. That's a nice dress." It's sort of a dusky rose, or mauve, or something along those lines, and it does look nice. Not as nice as, say, what Donna or Jessica or Rachel wear, but it's flattering.

"Why thank you," she says, smiling wider. "You know, if you're not too busy thi– "

"This is our floor," Harvey says right over her as the elevator bobs slightly in place and the doors ding and open. "Come on, Mike." He shoves past, out into the hall, and doesn't even wait for Mike to step out beside him before he's making for their new room. 

It's all Mike can do to keep from exploding with a flailing, indignant "what the hell?" as he follows after. He's not exactly sure what the hell is up Harvey's ass – or _why_ , if it's the thing back at the Gormans' shop. He'd been as professional as possible, under the circumstances, hadn't he?

There's Harvey being short with him when he's unhappy, which is something Mike's not unfamiliar with, and then there's this. It brings Mike to an entirely new level of irritated and incredulous when Harvey shuts the door in his face, in a move that cannot remotely be anything but intentional.

"We only have the one room, asshole!" Mike says, voice raised, no longer caring about the successful meeting with the Gormans, or that they're in a packed hotel and he's likely disturbing the other guests. He fumbles his own keycard out of his wallet and barges in through the door to find Harvey standing only a few steps inside the room, facing him, his fists clenched at his side and his jaw just as locked.

And Mike sees red, can barely think past the pounding of his blood in his ears, because what the fuck does Harvey have to be so pissed off at him about?

He's up in Harvey's face before he even makes the decision to be, the door slamming behind him, and he's actually _shaking_ , he's so worked up. "Seriously?!" he shouts, even more angry when Harvey doesn't even flinch, let alone back up. "You _cannot_ be mad at me about this! That was totally her! I was _professional_ , damn it!"

Mike's outburst does nothing to calm Harvey, to defuse him or make him see how wrong he is about the whole thing. Instead, Harvey just gets more into Mike's personal space, pointing right at him with that index finger, like Mike's some kid in need of a solid lecture. "You should have put a stop to it!" He practically roars it, and Mike's been yelled at before, by Harvey and plenty of others, but this is right up there with all the times Harvey's been pissed enough to try to fire him, and might actually top all those other times.

Which makes _no fucking sense_.

"Put a _stop_ to it? Put a – I – I can't _even_ – " Mike says, tripping on the words as his brain balks at Harvey's fucking nerve. "Fuck this, I'm changing out of these clothes, and I'm going out." He's not even thinking of getting high – he just wants out of this hotel, maybe a good, stiff drink, or at the very least, to walk around Los Angeles for a few hours until he's tired enough to come back and sleep. He's fueled with anger-sparked energy, practically vibrating with it.

He tries to shove past Harvey, to get to his bed and his suitcase, but Harvey isn't having any of that, bullying Mike like he always does. Harvey's hands grab roughly above Mike's elbows, trying to keep him in place, probably to yell at him some more, and Mike's having none of it, himself. He tries to shrug Harvey off, but Harvey hangs on, wrinkling the shit out of his suit, and that pisses Mike off even more – because if he wrinkled Harvey's suit like this, he'd probably get thrown out the window.

And suddenly, Mike wants to be that petty. Harvey's not the only one who can play that sort of game.

Mike gets his arms up high enough to shove Harvey in the chest, a really good firm push, but Harvey doesn't let go. His jaw just tightens like he was expecting the move and, somehow, they're not just shoving, they're practically grappling with each other. Neither of their suits are pressed and unwrinkled now; Mike's hands sweat as he shoves at Harvey, trying to get the upper hand and position of power, and Harvey's got Mike's sleeve clenched in one hand so hard that the fabric might even have ripped.

It crosses Mike's mind then, as he attempts to grab Harvey by the lapels of his jacket, that this isn't _Trevor_ , it's his _boss_ , and Jesus H. Christ, what are they even _doing_?

Mike's grip goes loose as that truth slams home, a hundred horrifying consequences flying through his brain in a split second, and Harvey slams him against the wall, assisted by the sudden lack of force in Mike's movements. Mike tries to get Harvey to let him go, struggles for a few moments until Harvey processes that Mike's not actively fighting anymore, and then they just stand there, glaring at each other and breathing hard. Mike's not sure about Harvey, but he has no idea where to go from here, and he's still pissed off.

Pissed off, and kind of turned on, actually. Well, arousal's arousal, according to a number of studies.

Mike's not even sure who moves first, breaking their little staring contest – honestly can't tell which of them leans forward first, takes the initiative to turn this around, to maybe explore what's been in the background for a long time. Maybe it doesn't matter. Either way, there's clacking teeth and bitten lips, and Mike's head is filled with the lingering scent of Harvey's aftershave and the scotch from only an hour ago or so. 

There's no room in his head anymore for over-thinking what's happening, for analyzing the situation and trying to reason out what's going on and what he should do next. There's only the feel of Harvey's hands working their way into Mike's shirt, shoving the material aside to slide hotly along the skin of his torso, moving from stomach to his sides and up along his back, lighting up every nerve on the way. Mike wants more, wants his own hands on Harvey, wants Harvey's hands everywhere at once on _him_ , and he tries to figure out a way to convey that, pulling back, away from Harvey's mouth, with a half-gasped "wait –"

The word and Mike's increased distance are met with a growl – an honest-to-God growl – that seems to start way down in Harvey's diaphragm and goes up and out, and straight into Mike's cock. He can't help but moan, because his brain might not be fully firing at the moment, but Mike knows the sound of possessiveness and desire rolled together, and it's the clearest way Harvey could demonstrate that he wants this, right now. He forgets about using words to try to tell Harvey what he wants, instead letting his body communicate it for him. He arches his back against the wall, gets his fingers wrapped in Harvey's belt loops, and yanks. 

Harvey's mouth crashes against his again, but Mike is ready for it. He slides his tongue into Harvey's mouth, intensely gratified when Harvey groans so softly it's barely audible. Mike arches his hips deliberately, fingers still entwined in the loops of fabric, and tries not to crow in victory when he feels the length of Harvey's rock-hard cock pressed up against his own, even through all the layers of their clothes. He wonders, in a rather distracted sort of way, if he can get Harvey off without either of them getting undressed, just through their clothes, nothing but making out and some well-applied frottage.

Mike's debating whether or not to try, trying to figure out if they're just going to progress to straight-up fucking on the floor, pants around their ankles and maybe shirts unbuttoned and ties off instead, when Harvey eases up, suddenly. In almost any other case, it might be the moment where Mike's brain reasserts its control, where morality and worry sink their claws into him and reach down to release pent-up panic, but that doesn't happen. Maybe it's because Harvey's not entirely stopped. He hasn't pulled away, hasn't shoved at Mike to get him to back off. Instead, he's... gentled... his efforts. It's not that pure, desperate, frenetic energy anymore. Harvey's still kissing him – still touching him, his hands on Mike's back, underneath his shirt and undershirt – but it's definitely gentler, and when Mike tries to get back to that previous speed, that adrenaline-fueled force, Harvey growls softly, a very clear 'no' communicated with just a noise.

Mike pulls his head back, lets it hit the wall, and gives Harvey a look that's pure challenge, because sure, why not, he's lost enough of his sense to know provoking Harvey often goes badly. "What, you can't take it?" he asks, breathing heavily, actually able to feel his heart pounding against his ribs, in perfect time with the throbbing of his cock.

Harvey's eyes narrow just a fraction, and he huffs. With possibly the most predatory, dangerous smirk Mike's ever seen him give, he shakes his head. "I'll show _you_ what you can't take," he murmurs, and Mike's suddenly sure he's fucking done for, though he doesn't know how, can't get his throat to work right and allow another response before Harvey threads the fingers of one hand through Mike's hair and closes in again.

Mike shuts his eyes, not knowing what the hell to expect. He certainly doesn't anticipate Harvey's next move, the strategy that goes with it, when Harvey proceeds to be utterly controlled and thorough in his efforts. His kisses are slow but still deliberate, like if he takes his time and pays attention to Mike's responses, he can figure out _exactly_ what Mike wants, what he likes most. It occurs to Mike through the fog of pleasure that's wrapped around his brain, trying to smother it, that that's probably what Harvey _is_ doing, using his ability to read people to teach Mike the ultimate lesson. 

Mike is so very, very on board with this lesson.

It's sometime later – Mike has absolutely no idea _how_ much later – that Mike realizes Harvey's going to win at this. His lips feel swollen, his dress shirt is completely unbuttoned and off his shoulders, his shoulders have light pink splotches where Harvey's nipped at the skin, just the slightest spark of pain to contrast the pleasure, and, though his pants are still technically on, they and the waistband of his boxers are most of the way down his thighs. Mike can feel his legs starting to tremble, every nerve in his body alive and sensitive and responsive, and he can't – he can't – he just _can't_.

"Harvey," Mike rasps, eyes rolling into the back of his head for a second as Harvey adjusts the placement of his hand – it had been wrapped around Mike's cock a few times, until he'd moved it, cupping Mike's balls, the palm of his hand still pressing lightly against Mike's shaft, still massaging up and down – with what is probably his middle finger now joining the game and putting _just_ enough pressure against his hole to make Mike whimper. He's been making a number of noises throughout, but this is the first word he's managed in a while.

"Yeah?" Harvey's voice is playful, a little wicked, but also rough, like the sight or feel of Mike like this has got him a little affected, too. He presses his finger against Mike's rim again, earning himself a shuddering breath as payment. "What is it, Mike?"

"I—I can't," he manages, knowing what Harvey wants to hear, and completely unable to not give it to him. "I can't take it." He forces himself to hold Harvey's gaze. "I can't take it. Please."

He's a fucking wreck, completely and totally, unlike he's ever been before, and it's both awful and mind-blowingly amazing, and it feels like something he's been waiting for his entire life. Harvey looks back at him, pupils black and wide, and exhales a long, ragged breath. "You sure?" His voice is low, dark, and there's still that undercurrent of teasing, but there's something more there, now, and it fills Mike up, mixes with the leaden heat low in his belly, flows up into his chest and makes him light-headed. It's a voice that says he'll take the last shred of Mike's control away if that's what he wants and allows, will strip him bare of everything that doesn't matter and let him be whatever he wants and needs to be.

"I'm sure," Mike says. "Please." He's not one-hundred-percent clear on what he's asking Harvey to do, but he knows he needs it from him just the same, and he thinks Harvey knows what it is anyway. "Just, please."

"All right." 

Mike practically sobs in relief when Harvey dips his head in again, kissing Mike thoroughly and tugging his dress shirt the rest of the way off, tossing it onto the floor, before removing the undershirt and sending it off the same way. Mike expects his pants to be next, but instead, Harvey pulls back, undoes his own belt buckle and slides that out, the leather dragging through the loops with a soft hiss; Mike moans quietly, suddenly sure that if Harvey wanted to tie him up with that belt, wanted to do other things with it, he would absolutely be open to it. Harvey's own pants and underwear are on the ground in short order, and Mike finally gets a look at Harvey's cock, still hard and now unrestrained, and knows that, whatever else might be in Harvey's plans, he wants to ride it hard and fast sometime before they get on the plane to New York, show Harvey a few tricks of his own. He's been trying not to think about it all day, since he felt it pressed against the crack of his ass first thing this morning, but now it looks like something he can have, if he plays his cards right.

Harvey finally shoves Mike's pants and boxers to the floor, low enough that Mike can step out of them, sparing a moment to wrap his hand lightly around Mike's length and give it a few slow strokes before getting himself out of his own shirts and tie. "Bed," he says, voice quiet but still commanding, and Mike nods frantically and tries not to trip over himself in his earnestness. His mind is chanting a litany of yeses, the occasional 'please' thrown in to accentuate them, and he will damned well deal with the consequences of their actions tomorrow, because tonight he needs _this_.

"What do you want?" Harvey asks once they're both on the nearest bed, Mike on his back, head propped up on the pillows. He slides his way up so they're about even, trails his fingers along Mike's side in a way that's almost lazy, but not quite. Mike doesn't really have a word to describe the movement, the touch – it might be casual to an observer, but that's the opposite of how it feels. It's more like Harvey's savoring it, his touch slow and gentle like it's familiar, and what Mike can't filter out of it is that it's the familiarity that's important here. "Anything. Just tell me what you want."

Harvey's not really big on giving people carte blanche, and that, at least, is not lost on Mike. He doesn't blurt out his answer, though he knows it before Harvey even finishes speaking. Instead, he looks Harvey dead in the eye, steady as he can be and voice almost as solid. "I want you to fuck me. I want you on top of me, fucking me into this mattress. You choose the pace, the other details. Those are the only ones I care about right now." He holds Harvey's gaze, waits for a response. He doesn't know what he'll do if Harvey says no, but he also doesn't think that's likely.

Harvey's mouth slowly slides into a smirk, then goes a little further past that and settles into something like a smile. "You sure? No amendments?"

Mike wants to grin a little, but he doesn't. He shakes his head. "None. Those are my terms."

"Terms accepted," Harvey drawls, and instead of flipping Mike over, like Mike expects, he reaches down, caresses the small of Mike's back, and slides his hand down to rest on Mike's ass. The other hand disappears under the pillows, and then Harvey lets go of his ass and uses his hand to align their cocks, letting them rub up against each other as he gets his hand around both of them, easily settling into a steady rhythm.

Mike almost regrets saying Harvey can set the pace, but that's pretty effectively overruled when Harvey leans in and kisses him, slow and yet utterly filthy. Mike has just enough presence of mind to reach down between them and get his hand to join Harvey's in its task, and when Harvey moans softly into Mike's mouth, arching his hips, Mike figures he's okay with waiting just a little longer to get to the main event. 

It's hard to think through the haze of lust and endorphins, but Mike still makes himself focus on Harvey – listen to when his breath hitches, notice when he clutches at the pillow under Mike's head, take note of each moan and growl and panted 'yes' and other words of encouragement. Harvey chokes out an "oh, fuck" against Mike's shoulder, biting down hard enough that Mike whimpers – only half surprised that the small bit of pain feels almost as good as everything else – and Mike can't help but grin when Harvey's whole body spasms, just a little. 

When Harvey looks at him and nods, Mike's so ready for it he just rolls over onto his stomach, trying to figure out how to best position himself with only the two pillows they have on this bed. He hears Harvey get up, registers the sound of a zipper being undone, and then hears Harvey rummaging around, followed by the sound of cardboard or paper tearing and thick plastic crinkling. Harvey returns a moment later, kneels between Mike's knees, and helps him with the pillow, another low growl escaping him as Mike gets situated. This one sounds impatient, which is a feeling Mike is well-acquainted with, currently. 

A condom wrapper lands on the surface of the nightstand, and Mike tenses just slightly as there's a clicking sound, and Harvey squirts out what Mike assumes is lube. He moans into the pillow when Harvey rubs around his hole for a few moments, then slowly slides a slick finger into him. Mike wants to tell him to hurry it up, but he stops himself – he's already told Harvey he can set the pace and besides, Harvey's got some damned talented hands. The one not working steadily on stretching him is also slick, playing with his balls in a way that has Mike's eyelids fluttering. That doesn't mean he can help pressing back against Harvey when he wants more, though, and Harvey reads him well enough to know when enough's enough.

"Ready?" he rumbles, and Mike nods enthusiastically, words being too complicated, requiring energy that can be better spent elsewhere. Harvey's hands disappear for a moment, and then Mike feels the head of Harvey's cock press against his hole before Harvey slowly pushes into him.

"Ohhhmygod," Mike moans into the mattress, too focused on the feeling to be embarrassed by the involuntary vocalization. Besides, he heard Harvey grunt as he slid in, so it's not like he can say a damned thing. Just this morning, he'd felt helpless to keep from wondering what this might be like, and now he's actually finding out. Harvey's hands grip Mike's hips, steadying them both as Harvey tries to find a good angle, and Mike flashes back to that awkward moment in the restaurant, unable to keep back the small, huffed laugh at the memory. But then Harvey begins to thrust, slowly and shallowly, and Mike focuses on that, instead. He's still kind of tight, but this doesn't really hurt. Harvey's worked him enough to prepare him for the main act, and Mike is pretty sure there's an awful lot of lube being used, though he is in no way complaining.

They don't talk after that; there are definitely _noises_ happening, but Mike thinks Harvey is deliberately focusing on his physical and inarticulate vocal responses and responding to those, and he's trying to do the same. There is a point, just after Harvey's rhythm picks up and he starts thrusting deeper, harder, where Mike clenches, just to see how Harvey will respond, and Harvey gasps a surprised-sounding "fuck" that has Mike wanting to pump his fist in victory. Harvey's rhythm falters for just a few seconds, and then he's leaning down, covering Mike's back with his chest, rolling them over onto their sides.

Mike almost – _almost_ – says something about how this violates the terms he's set, and then Harvey reaches around them both, takes Mike's dick in his hand and starts to stroke in time to his thrusts, and Mike forgets he had an argument to make. He can feel Harvey's breath against his neck, coming in harsh, hot puffs as he pants. Yeah, no, this is okay. This is totally fine, as an amendment to their contract. It's even more contact, more touching, a way for them to be closer, and Mike sort of loses himself in how awesome it all feels, and not just in the physical sensations his body is registering.

He doesn't realize right away that he's whimpering, making helpless, desperate noises, until he stops them to tell Harvey he's close, there's no way he's going to last much longer. "Hold on just another minute?" Harvey pants into his ear, his hand slowing so much it's practically still, wrapped around Mike's cock. He loosens his grip as well, and Mike wants to whimper for another reason. Still, yeah, this way, he might be able to hold out just a little longer, teetering right on the brink, as if someone's holding onto his belt while he leans over a ledge.

"Yeah," he says, nodding, trying to remember to breathe. "Yeah, I can do that." He tells himself he will _not_ come yet, not until Harvey wants him to, and closes his eyes. He bears down around Harvey's cock, feeling pleased with himself when Harvey's breath audibly stutters, his pace increasing after a moment's recovery, thrusts picking up a desperate sort of rhythm. 

Mike knows Harvey's close when the hand around his dick speeds up, grips him a little harder, and suddenly he's right back to hurtling towards that cliff. "Go ahead," Harvey rasps against his neck, and Mike lets go of any last shreds of control or restraint he's kept, his orgasm a bright, hot flare through his whole body, pleasure bursting through every vein, in every cell of his being. His clenching around Harvey this time is more reflex than intentional act, just riding out his climax, and Harvey goes rigid, uttering a moan that's completely debauched, utterly filthy and half-broken, and about a hundred times better than the one he'd let out this morning, before he'd woken completely to find his morning wood pressed up against Mike. "Good boy," he whispers a moment later, voice husky, and something deep down in Mike basks in those two words and that tone, a feeling entirely unlike the receding orgasm, but euphoric just the same.

Everything's still kind of hazy when Harvey gets up out of the bed and heads to the bathroom, but Mike's pretty much back to himself when he finishes up in there. "I'm not sleeping in the wet spot," Mike slurs, still feeling half-boneless, as Harvey emerges. "That side's all yours."

"Oh, I'm not sleeping in that bed," Harvey says, the smirk plain in his voice. Mike blinks, looking at Harvey in confusion because, though that had been awesome, and he'd been pretty sure Harvey had also enjoyed it, he'd thought it had maybe also _meant_ something. Harvey shakes his head, cutting off Mike's thoughts, and gives him the look that says he thinks Mike's an idiot, though there's a tinge of fondness layered underneath. "Neither are you." Mike remembers something and glances at the other bed, still pristine and made up, and hears Harvey chuckle. Right, okay, he is kind of an idiot, but right now, he can blame the brainlessness on the post-orgasm moment. 

"Clean yourself up," Harvey says, nodding towards the bathroom. He doesn't say anything else, but when Mike passes by him to get in there, Harvey stops him, catching his arm with a gentle hand, and Mike turns easily into his grip, rewarded with a soft kiss before being nudged back on track.

That, combined with the remark about neither of them sleeping in the bed they've made a mess of, makes Mike think maybe this really was more than some accidental, one-time thing. He doesn't know why he dares to hope that, but he does, just the same. It isn't until he's settled under the covers of the second bed, and Harvey's pulling him closer, so that Mike's head rests against Harvey's chest while Harvey runs a hand through Mike's hair, that something comes back to him. "Hey, Harvey?" he says after thinking about it for a minute, unable to come up with an answer that means anything good.

Harvey shifts a little, and his voice is a rumble Mike feels as well as hears. "What? You can't be ready for round two yet."

Mike doesn't grin at that, because everything feels a little too tight as he waits for the answer to the question he has to make himself ask. "Not that I don't appreciate the concern for safety, but... do you always just happen to travel with lube and condoms?" He's been over it a few times. Harvey hasn't been out of his sight since they got up, save for trips to the bathroom. So the options are that, one, Harvey went out and bought them before changing into his pajamas last night, while Mike was passed the fuck out, or two, he'd packed them before they'd left New York. Which means that he'd considered the possibility of getting laid beforehand – and that doesn't necessarily mean he'd considered it with Mike, and not someone he knows out here, or someone he might simply pick up at a bar, after some post-deal celebration.

Harvey goes still for a second, then laughs softly. "You want to know the truth?"

Mike squints up at him. "Yeah, but now I'm also curious what lie you might've considered telling just now."

Grinning crookedly, Harvey shakes his head. "If I was going to lie, I'd have said I brought them in case _you_ needed them, because sometimes you're not exactly the most responsible person in the world, and the last thing you need is unprotected sex with a stranger who lives on the other side of the country."

Mike didn't expect that answer, and it really raises more questions. But now he definitely wants to know the truth, because it doesn't sound like Harvey's answer is a simple _yes, I do, because I_ am _a responsible adult, when it comes to sexual health_. "And what's the truth?" He looks Harvey square in the eye, because he needs honesty in this, whatever the answer. He can deal, even if it's not ideal.

"Donna put them there." There's just a little flush on Harvey's face, just the tiniest hint of embarrassment, and that's part of why Mike knows it's true.

The bottle still had secure plastic shrink wrap over it. He'd heard Harvey remove it. And the condoms had been from a new box, because he'd heard Harvey rip that open, too. Brand new items. Probably bought yesterday. Maybe around the time Harvey had asked Donna to either pack or retrieve his bag and get it to Ray. 

"Why would she...?" Mike asks, because there are a number of possible reasons, but he wants to hear it from Harvey, especially because of the look on his face.

"You know damn well why," Harvey says, eyebrows raised. "It was a not-so-subtle hint to me to get my shit together and act on what she considered obvious to everyone. It's _Donna_ , Mike. Don't act like you've never gotten a suggestion or hint from her before."

Mike cracks up suddenly, because he _has_ , and he's not even sure Harvey's aware of this one. "What's so funny?" Harvey asks, defensiveness in his voice, and Mike can only shake his head and wrap his arm around Harvey's middle while he gets himself under control.

"We have to go back to the Gormans' before we leave, or to their New York location before we get back to work Tuesday morning," he finally says, smiling hugely. He gets it. The tension wasn't just because of an unfortunate morning cuddle, it was beyond that. It was in all the time he and Harvey spend together, the bond they've forged, in the fact that Harvey Specter does, in fact, feel emotions, and it was even in the way Harvey'd soothed him out of a nightmare he only half-remembers, because Mike's now positive that really did happen. And it's not just something on his end, and Donna is the queen of hints and subtleties, when it suits her.

"Why?"

That note in the Gorman file, the one in Donna's unmistakable, elegant handwriting, stuck on the glossy ad displaying the platinum and emerald pendant: _This is an exceptionally nice piece if someone ever needs to say thank you._ There had even been a little winking smiley face on the note, and Mike knows – _knows_ – she meant this, even if it could have been interpreted as an innocent little hint for any other time, or just a feminine perspective on their clients' work. Mike has no idea if the note was meant for him, Harvey, or both of them, but it doesn't matter, doesn't even matter if Harvey never saw it in the first place.

"We're getting Donna a little thank you gift for her meddling," he says, tucking himself even closer to Harvey, which gets him a little rumbled noise of approval. "And I know just the thing."

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, I'm on [tumblr](http://khasael.tumblr.com)!


End file.
